War of the Cowards
by Aardvark-Alice
Summary: The Great War has just been initiated, and the whole of Tamriel is steeling themselves up in preparation. But, within this period of tension and conflict, two of the most unlikely people form a most unlikely friendship. Mainly OC-based. T for coarse language, violence and possibly sensitive topics later on.
1. Epilogue, Part 1

**AN: Ye Gods, it has been too long since I have written anything! So hello again! For those of you that have been following my account for a while, you may remember the characters in this novel. That's because this is a rewrite of an old fanfiction of mine **_**Abagaianye**_**. There are a few alterations, including the fact that story is, in fact, a story in a story. Now, that may seem daunting, but all you need to help you out is this key below; it explains all the perspectives written. I'll make sure to write it every chapter as a reminder.**

**Key**

_Italic writing_** = Third person not in the book**

Normal writing** = Dareio's perspective written in the book**

CAPITAL LETTERS **= "Anonymous Dunmer's" perspective written in the book**

**Thank you for taking the time to read this, and enjoy!**

* * *

Epilogue (Part One)

"_Does anyone ever consider an author's position as they read a story?" Dareio asked his Dunmeri friend languidly as he observed the movements of the clouds above them._

"_How do you mean?" The other replied._

_The sky was a watercolour blend of honey oranges, darkened pinks and fiery reds as the sun began its retreat from the growing darkness of the night. If he was in his more comfortable state of slight tipsiness, Dareio might have come up with descriptions of how picturesque it looked, or how, if he stared at it for long enough, it started to hypnotise his subconscious into an otherworldly dream. But, this was not the case, for he was very much aware of the fact that he was very much sober._

"_Well, authors have to sit down and write their stories someplace, at some time in some location," the Altmer elaborated on his point. "I wonder if people ever think about how they're feeling as they write, or how much of their personal thoughts influence the story or what kind of issues or events they're living through as they write?"_

"_If it's an auto-biography, perhaps," The Dunmer replied, bluntly._

_Dareio paused, slowly turning to look at his ash-skinned friend. He didn't talk until the Dunmer realised what this pause meant, and met his white gaze with the Altmer's orange stare of played-on contempt. "You think you're so smart," Dareio feigned a grumble, before cracking into a smile. He was always tried his best to get his Dunmer friend to smile back, or perhaps laugh with him, but it seemed almost impossible. Despite how hard it was to get him to smile, Dareio was satisfied with the softening of his friend's features; it was a sign that he was making something of an impression._

_There was a pause between them, a lingering feeling in the scent-thick air as the crackle of the fire filled in the silence; Dareio's smile faded into neutrality as he stared into the campfire in front of the two, and the Dunmer shuffled up against a tree stump behind him and folded his arms. The first to talk was, not surprisingly, Dareio. "We need to get everything that's happened onto paper," he blurted out suddenly._

"_What?"_

"_I've been thinking about it for a while now," Dareio admitted, gluing his eyes to the campfire. "I've kept telling myself, 'You ought to start recording your adventures down, Dareio, my good mer, otherwise you might never get the chance to.' And I think now is a good chance, after all that we've been through!"_

_The Dunmer tilted his head, his permanent hint of a frown unchanging. "You know, maybe the Gods have kept us alive because we haven't written a book, and are planning on keeping us alive until it's written. I'd say that was a better explanation of our incredible luck than anything else."_

_Dareio couldn't help but look at his friend with slight bemusement, a brow raised and his lips slightly pursed. His friend always confused him with his way of thinking, somehow finding and bluntly applying morbidity and humility in every topic under the sun and moons, though not being too negative about everything. The Altmer figured now that, after witnessing so many counts of murder and being surrounded by death his whole life, it wasn't so much of a surprise that the Dunmer thought this way. "I don't think the Gods would ever take a fancy in reading our adventures. Not even those crazy demi-god people of yours."_

_The Dunmer huffed through his nose, turning it up slightly in a muted disapproval. "They vanished over two centuries ago, and I do not recognise them as gods to be worshipped. You know both these things, Dareio."_

_A wicked grin spread on the Altmer's lips. "I know you know I know."_

_The Dunmer rolled his eyes; he pretended to hate Dareio's fancy flourishes, pointless paradoxes and ridiculous riddles. "Fine. But what are we writing this down for? I'm sure we can remember it more than vividly in our minds."_

"_But that'd be selfish!" Dareio was quick to reply, giving a firm nod to enforce his enthusiasm behind the point. "We need to let others learn from our experiences. And give them something sensational to read in their spare time."_

"_If you're sure they'll read it, then I guess it'd be alright-"_

"_Furthermore," Dareio continued ardently, trying his best to shift any doubt from the Dunmer's mind that writing down their story would be a bad idea. "I think we need to order everything officially for ourselves. We have different perspectives, and I think we ought to share them and get everything out in the open between us."_

_The Dunmer let out another huff through his nose. To him, the idea that openness had to be a necessity between friends was stupid and self-defeating. Surely, as friends, they could trust each other enough to share what is necessary without being spurred first. Regardless of his preference, however, he figured that he owed it to the Altmer to, at the very least, describe the way he saw the events that unravelled around and between them. "Fine," he replied plainly. "You're writing though."_

_Dareio frowned. "I just said that we ought to share our perspectives! Just having me as the sole contributor would defeat the object!"_

_Knowing that if he tried to dodge out of this one he'd never hear the end of Dareio's whining, the Dunmer simply sighed, before adding: "Alright, I'll put in my side in too. But your handwriting is better than mine, so I might ask you to write down what I say. Is that acceptable, your majesty?"_

_The twist of sarcasm in his friend's words made Dareio fake a cringe, but it was quickly replaced with a smug smile, having achieved what he wanted. "Absolutely. Now, fetch me some paper, some ink and some quills, slave!"_

_It was surprising how much pretence played out between the two, considering the fact that they were friends. As the Dunmer grumbled and got up to get some paper, Dareio gaze cast to the sky again. As the darkness grew in hues of indigo and deep-ocean blue, he reached across to a wooden slatted crate, poking his hand into a lantern and letting a flame flicker from his fingertip to light it. By the time he had shook his hand out (something he made sure to do after a certain incident) and closed the little, iron door to the lantern, his Dunmer friend was holding out a wodge of parchments, a quill, and a full inkwell. Wordlessly excited, the Altmer set the items on the crate, dipped the quill into the ink and, leaving a space for a title, began to neatly write:_

By Dareio and A

"_Don't do that, you idiot!" The Dunmer seized Dareio's wrist to stop him from writing._

_On the receiving end of a mild (for Dunmeri standards, anyway) glare, Dareio frowned lightly. "Well, why ever not? You're going to help me write this too!"_

_The Dunmer's voice was gruff and low. "You know what I'm like about disclosing personal information, Dareio."_

_To wind up his friend, Dareio took his time to let out a sigh, before letting out a feigned-reluctant, "Oh, alright then," and completing the sentence to make:_

By Dareio and Anonymous Dunmer

_A smug grin spread on Dareio's lips. "There. Happy now?"_

_The Dunmer stared at Dareio with an expression of extreme impersonality. "The only true happiness is in death." However, when he noticed the Altmer look a little concerned, he added: "That was a joke."_

_Dareio held a look of alienated concern. "You're really strange; did I ever tell you that?"_

"_A few times," The Dunmer replied. "You're weird too."_

"_Oh, thank you! I'm quite sure that's the loveliest thing I've heard from you all day!" Dareio strained for a tone of gratitude, before hovering his quill above the page, near the top. "Right, what should we call this?"_

_They both stared at the page for some time, little shadows from the inconsistencies of the page flickering in the lantern-light. They were both a bit too prideful to admit how much significance they held in the title of the book (this was, after all, just an account of their experiences), but the dragging silence made it increasingly obvious that they did not want to mess this up. Dareio hadn't even thought of a general theme by the time his friend plucked out the quill from his hand and wrote down a title, but once his friend had written it down, he jumped to the opportunity of prosecuting it._

"_What kind of a title is that?" Dareio squeaked slightly, jabbing at the title without touching it to save smudging the ink. "How does this have any bearing on what happened to us?"_

_The Dunmer blinked slowly, before gradually tilting his head up to look at the Altmer. "Trust me on this."_

_Dareio went to dispute the argument, but quickly shut his own mouth when he realised the full meaning behind what his friend had just said. He retracted his hand, staring dumbly at his friend for a second, before looking back to the title. He supposed, on second glance, it wasn't as bad as he made it out to be, and that he really only objected for the sake of arguing with his friend, not that he was going to admit it. "Fine," was the only thing he had to say on the matter. And as the Dunmer glanced back to the title he had just created, the two just stared at the ink sink into the parchment, the finalised mark of initiation of their adventure._

WAR OF THE COWARDS


	2. Chapter 1

**Key**

_Italic writing_** = Third person not in the book**

Normal writing** = Dareio's perspective written in the book**

CAPITAL LETTERS **= "Anonymous Dunmer's" perspective written in the book**

**Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 1

It was the recognition of my own cowardice that got me into this insanity. Since I wouldn't openly admit to being frightened, the only person left to tell was myself. Granted, there were other factors that were involved, statistics and numbers all listed up and added up to almost impossibly small probabilities, dictating that what happened should have not ever occurred. But it did. At the time, the fact that I got so nervous over potential events that may threaten my health was an extreme curse, festering within me like a disease that couldn't be cured. As something of a health professional, I sometimes considered writing a paper to one of the big-shot government facilities about clinical pusillanimity, but to risk revealing my own position as a sufferer would, stupidly, strike fear in me. The possible repercussions of making my cowardly instincts public stuck an icy weight to my chest, brought my heart into my throat, choked my mind of any thought of standing my ground—Well, you get the picture. I was scared of admitting I was scared. A stupid, personal paradox that I never publicly confronted.

Though, I'm evidently slipping off track. I suppose the best place to start this adventure is in a place reasonably far back in the fateful evening that I actually half-remember. It was the 2nd of Sun's Dusk, and a last-minute formal business dinner had been established. While it would probably be very entertaining for you all to read about my ten minute comical costume-change from work uniform to my formal "No. 1"s, as we used to call them, I think I may just spare myself the embarrassment.

I had always told himself to pay more attention in social events like this, always said that if I did listen to the white-noise conversations, that perhaps I'd pick up something. A note, a melody, a symphony of beautiful information or philosophy or some-such. Perhaps even a fellow Altmer's conversation on the outrage that was the price of milk would take wing in my mind: Why is milk increasing in price? Because there's less being made to meet demand. But why's that? Are the animals malnourished? Are the farmers on strike? Or, perhaps there are milk-hoarding nobles paying out extra investments to keep some of the milk for themselves? This is preposterous!

On second reflection, this is probably why I did not listen to the suzzle (I will explain this word in just a minute) of people small-talking and let ideas develop in my mind, for the things I conjured up within my brain had far too much abstraction for anyone to find attractive, even myself! Now to explain my theory on "suzzling", this is a word I made up to explain the collective noise of a large gathering of people chatting amongst themselves. Perhaps most authors would use the words "murmur" or "hum", but it's neither of those things at all; the people are talking at a normal volume between each other, it's just the subconsciously shared volume cancelled out the detail of words. It's so selfish, in fact, to call it a murmur, because that really just suggests that its volume and nature is changed due to the fact that the writer can't pick up individual words! It's absolutely unacceptable! And, of course, I came to save the literary world by gracing it with a new word: "suzzle".

_As the Dunmer returned to the book with a quill of his own, he scanned the words as Dareio wrote them, and shook his head. "If the readers have lost track by now, I really don't blame them."_

So, there I stood in this grand dining hall, present at this dinner party as the lower ranks waited for the members of the top table to arrive. I took another sip of wine, the flavour becoming a welcome distraction. I felt myself smirk as I glanced into the goblet. It's quite ironic how I drank to drown out my own overthinking, strange inner voice of mine, yet the alcohol only served to further estrange and abstract my thoughts from expected normality. Though, that may have just been stupidity, instead of irony. I don't really know and I don't really care. It's not like I have a problem with alcohol or anything; I can control myself.

DAREIO HAS AN EXCESSIVELY RUTHLESS CASE OF ALCOHOLISM

_As soon as his Dunmer friend wrote his first line of input, Dareio was quick to shout at him. "I really do not need your assistance in giving me a bad name, my friend." He hissed, slightly burnt that his issue with alcohol was now down on paper, though said nothing more as he continued to write._

Leaning on the back of my dinner-seat for the evening and lifting it off of its front legs slightly, I took a glance around the room. Everyone was stood behind their seats, or near enough, suzzling to one another, as was expected, so I glanced to who I was seated with. I groaned inwardly as I caught the back of some old mer's balding head, a glare from the platoon's mega-bitch, and a finger-wave from Mister Suspected Rapist (I had labelled him that on no basis other than the bulge in his eyes and the way he leaned forward and smiled when he talked to people, which, quite frankly, made me feel quite sick).

I asked myself at the time: Why am I always seated with rejects? I wasn't a completely unattractive Altmer, I don't think. Quite a long, flat nose, long chin and boring orange eyes, true, but my skin was quite an adequate shade of yellow-gold. And my hair! By Auri-El, I took an incredible amount of pride in my hair, but rightly so! That evening, it voluminously cascaded over my shoulders and down my back like tumbling waves of gold-spun silk, almost glittering in the flickering magelight spells that uniformly dotted the walls and filled in the gaps in chandeliers where candles were originally. It was not dissimilar to a haul of ancient, enchanted gold that had been melted into liquid form and poured over jet-black rocks of DAREIO IF YOU DO NOT GET ON WITH IT I SWEAR TO THE GODS I WILL TAKE THAT PRECIOUS HAIR OF YOURS AND- … I had tucked my hair neatly behind elven, knife-point ears, as I did usually when working, though I did nothing more with it apart from that, simply because I didn't have to. Though, apparently, even my beautiful locks don't permit me to finer company.

Of course, I knew that not everything in life depended on the company of others, but society influenced me just as it did everyone else. About a century ago from this dinner, I found myself irritated by a particular co-worker, who was complaining about women who did not wear make-up, and how absurd the idea of make-up-less women was. Now, I'm not a particular feminist, but I admit that I do like to have something to spark some drama. So, the day after, my colleagues were surprised to see I had lined his own eyes with the darkest Khol pigment one could import from Hammerfell, mixed with some oils so one could apply it as a liquid (it was expensive, but so worth it). Of course, coinciding with my rather (evident) theatrical personality, my eye-lining was not subtle, extending out from each corner of my eyes a good inch or so. "What are you playing at, Dareio? What is this madness?" They interrogated angrily, but all I would do was smirk a, if you don't mind me boasting again, unmistakable smirk, and leave the statement I was making unsaid but recognised. "It'll be off soon," they grumbled, "he won't last the week."

I've worn it every day since, come rain or shine.

Before I could get lost in any more memories, a glass chime sliced through the suzzle in the air, silencing it immediately. Everyone's glance shifted to the top table, the biggest chair- Well, one would be inclined to say throne. No one was sat at it, not just yet, but the source chime was located soon enough. A young elf, in full ceremonial robes, lowered the almost-empty, Alinorian crystal-formed glass and spoon, cleared her throat quietly, and then called out to the rest of the room, "Ladies, Gentlemen; the top table."

Immediately, backs straightened, heels clocked together and hands went down to people's sides rigidly. As courteousness dictated, everyone faced straight ahead from them, though I could make out the figures of various, over-dressed dignitaries and haughty officers. I knew every one of their names, or, at least, I could have named every one of them if asked in a sober state. On reflection, I could only recall a few of them. Brigadier Cordalmo, head of military logistics. Brigadier Morgonor, head of espionage. Commodore Aranil, head of naval operations. Major-General Orgarion, head of the infantry. Major-General Telgamin, head of arcane artillery (a section I fell under). And, the one who ruled over all of them, Lord Naarifin, the General of the military theatre, as well as head of the cavalry. He came robed in full uniform, the gold gleaming to an almost impossible degree against the black-as-night fabric. His face, only faintly etched with the advanced years, held an expression of professional pride as he stood in front of the throne-sized seat. After a well-timed pause and the smallest hint of a nod of acknowledgment to the dinner guests, he seated himself, the other officers of the top table following in a cascade either side of him.

I reached a hand out to pull out mega-bitch's chair, though she quickly yanked it out from under my hand, glaring straight at me. "I can look after myself, knave," she growled, before sitting herself down. I quickly curled up my fingers back and recoiled sharply, before quickly tugging my jacket straight and pulling an expression of feigned apathy (I was, in truth, ever-so-slightly offended). "As you wish," I made a show of mirroring her tone, though unintentionally mixing it with a purr, something that I can't help, before sitting myself down.

As the evening drew on, course after course of the meal passed. I remember not talking much, since I had no one to really talk to. In fact, I did not even dare look at others; the noises of the older, balding mer's eating was enough to make me sick, and I certainly did not need to enhance that feeling with Mr Suspected Rapist's glances over the table. Of course, there was my old friend, wine. Again, I'd just like to iterate; I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic, not at all! I just had a liking to its taste that perhaps extends a mild appreciation or, perhaps more so, the sensations it gave me. As the night crawled on, I could feel the familiar warmth began to lace around me, the subtle yet influential fingers of alcohol pulling the corners of my lips into a relaxed smile and caressing my brain into merging the physical world with my creative interpretations of it. Losing my measure of time, it didn't seem that long until all the courses were finished and Lord Naarifin rose from his seat for a speech.

Though I was not fully in-tune with my surroundings, I heard the important parts of this speech and the intonation of the Lord's fluid yet galvanising voice he used to deliver it. "Guests, ladies, gentlemen, dignitaries-" Naarifin started, and continued into a _blatantly riveting_ speech. _Surprisingly enough_, however, my mind fuzzed it out. The amount of occasions I had heard this was enough to induce a sleep while I hadn't had a drop to drink. Though, after a few unmeasured minutes, I found myself tuning back in, as Lord Naarifin's voice rose a bit, implying importance. "The courier reporting this event came in just this morn, with the testimony of the meeting in the Imperial Palace, stating that the Emperor declined our terms. The men of the Empire chose incorrectly, and now they will suffer our wrath." Naarifin propped his fingertips on the table and leant forward, the shadows darkening under his burning emerald-fire eyes and the corners of his lips curling just a fraction. "This is not the beginning of a war; this is the beginning of an extermination."

Cheers and applause roared up from the crowds, glasses raised and small bursts of excited suzzles broke in here and there as people began to discuss this "extermination". Being quite tipsy, one would have expected me to be partaking in one of the more excited forms of celebration. I certainly did not. Instead, I recall, I looked into my glass, eyes widened, as if expecting something the wine itself to grow into a tidal wave and swallow me up, drowning the heaviness of anxiety that glommed to my chest. My drunken state somewhat worsened my sense of foreboding, as mental abstraction began to spin my thoughts into a mildly traumatic wash of incoherence. In an attempt to and not look entirely dead to the outward observer, I mover my eyes, following the rim of his glass into a circle and spiralling into the centre of the blood red conduit of sense-suppressing wine. The word "War" in the painted crimson letters was what my mind managed to decipher of an alcohol-drenched page of my internal dictionary. The war has been declared. And I was facing deployment into battle.

Being as lost in thought as I was, I did not hear the metallic whining sound of air being sliced that momentous split second, and I did not immediately notice the noise of cheering morph into shouts of distress and shock. Though, when I did finally managed strength to pull my consciousness out of gory mental machinations, there was panic all around me. Agents were pouring out of their seats and out to every exit, scouring around every wall, window and archway. After a couple of blinks, I rose out of my seat slowly and turned my vision towards the top table. At first, I thought it was just a drunk Major-General Telgamin strewn over the table, with a dripping spillage of red wine spreading underneath him. But I was sorely mistaken. As the terrible realisation hit me, Naarifin began to bark orders, hysteria seeping into his voice as much as it was everyone else's mind: "Find him! Find him! Find the assassin!"


	3. Chapter 2

**Key**

_Italic writing_** = Third person not in the book**

Normal writing** = Dareio's perspective written in the book**

CAPITAL LETTERS **= "Anonymous Dunmer's" perspective written in the book**

**Once again, thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 2

So, after that magnificent cliff-hanger, many would have probably expected me to go into a mad dash and give aimless chase to find this assassin to revenge my recently deceased boss. Well, everyone who thinks that is about to happen is wrong. I apologize, but if you remember, I wasn't exactly in a sober state. By the time I had gotten out of my seat, the hall was practically empty, except from the echoes of hundreds of footsteps and shouts. Glancing over to the body of my old boss, I squinted through drunken blurs and made out the reflection of light against steel, then focused a bit harder. A throwing knife, buried in the right side of his neck. After some strenuous arithmetic work, I figured that, if the knife was came in from his right, the assassin would have been on his right, and with me facing him that would mean…

"To the left!" I remember exclaiming triumphantly, before taking an immediate left, only to bump my thigh into the table. After a quick yelp and couple of rubbings over the affected area, I made my way around the tables and to the left side of the hall, entering through a door dedicated to the catering staff. After stumbling through a somewhat narrow corridor, I entered a kitchen area, a dozen or so eyes turning onto me. Every person in the room, all checking through the cupboards and storage rooms for the assassin, froze at the sight of me, with expressions that suggested they were expecting me to beat them or something. Instead, I smiled languidly, before glancing over to the surface closest to me, where a knife-stand filled with kitchen knives sat. I'm not sure what drove me to take one, but I decided to, perhaps relating my mind back to the throwing knife earlier and recalling how cool it would be to make a shot like that. In fact, I think my drunken self was planning to replicate that on the assassin, through an entanglement of stupid reasons, one of which was envy. Taking the knife certainly made some of the staff jolt, but I just tucked it in my belt and blundered straight through the room, and out a back door.

Now at the side of the hall where only supply carts and horses went, I was actually, without meaning to, in the prime location in finding the assassin. However, my internally exaggerated excitement of becoming a hero among peers was soon dampened when I spotted the shadows of two detachments leaving this side of the building, having scanned the perimeter (I assumed). However, it was not yet completely crushed; people just don't disappear into thin air, this assassin had to be around somewhere. I unsheathed the kitchen knife from my belt, momentarily notified myself how disappointing a sound it made, then stepped out into the night, looking around a few storage crates. The more I did it, the tenser I felt, and the tenser I felt, the more my suspicion rose that I was next on that assassin's hit-list. As a Thalmor, we were considered the top predators of Tamriel; a powerful, organised force to be reckoned with and afraid of. One of the only weaknesses we had was that we knew this, and were arrogant and too prideful to show fear or vulnerability in ourselves. Perhaps, in that case, it was in this time that I separated from that force, as I went from predator to prey and looked up in fear some other force from above was about to consume me whole.

PREDATORS AREN'T SUPPOSED TO LOOK UP.

It all happened too quickly for me to fully register, but it all fell into place. From above my head, a shadowy figure fell, the sounds of light fabrics billowing up in sudden windfall reaching my ears, and, before the second was up, I had a knife to a throat, and a tanto-knife contacting the inside hollow of my hip. There was a taut silence between us, where I took a moment to take in the appearance of the intruder. He was masked, with wreathes of scarves about his neck and over his mouth. In the little light I had, his hair was black and his eyes reflected the light in an almost opalescent manner, though I couldn't make out a colour. The skin around his eyes was dark, and his facial structure was clearly elven in its angles, which concluded that the mer in front of me was a Dunmer.

As paranoid and slightly tipsy as I was, the pressure of upholding a silence just got too much. "Good evening," I half-slurred, half-squeaked, a tone of voice that I sincerely suggest you never try to make, especially when threatened by a knife to the crotch NEAR THE CROTCH, YOU IDIOT ok, near the crotch, whatever.

His voice was another giveaway to his race, if one could even call it a voice: it was more of a guttural growl originating from the volcano-land of Vvardenfell. "Make a move, and I'll slice your femoral artery."

"Make a move and I'll-" I started my threat, then took a moment to clear my throat, then continued. "I'll slice your throat."

Even with my knife to his neck, the Dunmer looked wholly unconvinced. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Fine."

"Alright."

There was another silence, but this time it felt more like a lull. I had read many fictional stories of adventure, and quite a few included nerve-straining stand-offs, so the one I was in now felt much like a disappointment. This mer in front of me had just killed one of the highest ranking officers in the corps; why was this not more exciting?

"What are you waiting for, then?" I blurted out, the suspense getting too much to bear, and perhaps to induce some sort of excitement to feed my subconscious disappointment.

"What?" He asked, something I took as an insult due to the fact that this was supposed to be tense, and he sounded calmer than an old lady knitting.

"Why are you hesitating?" I asked with more urgency, which was an attempt at sounding threatening but instead just sounding more scared.

"Why are you?"

This made me laugh a lot more than I should have. I would blame it on the drink if telling this story to someone's face, but, I must confess, I think it was my way of converting how scared I was externally. "You just killed my boss, sir," I replied, sounding cheerful due to the giggles. "I'd think anybody would be rather pleased if that happened to them."

The Dunmer didn't seem to see the humour in it. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No! Though, I am also quite intoxicated."

The Dunmer groaned in response, though didn't dare to take his eyes off of me; I was still a threat, no matter how mild.

It was at this moment that I both conceived and hatched my master plan. "I have a proposition to make," I stated, leaning forward and lowering my voice as if I was sharing some great secret, though having to support myself on a storage crate with my spare hand to stop myself toppling over from drink-induced disorientation.

"We both kill each other?" He growled back, cringing a bit at how close I was getting.

"Well, either that, _or_," I started again, breaking to giggle as I fancied myself as a fictional top spy about to pull off some mind-shattering verbal ballet to stun the Dunmer. "Or, you get me off of this island and we both escape." Again, I was drunk. For one, the only mind-shattering element of my proposition was how stupid it was. For another, this is where the thoroughness of my master plan came to an end; the only thing I had planned were the words I just spoke.

The assassin picked up on this too, the expression in his eyes finally breaking from the stoic neutrality, now showing clear disbelief. "Now, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

"I really am not!" I replied in protest, my mental barriers sodden with alcohol to the point where they've temporarily wilted and are just letting all my thoughts tumble out my mouth. "They just announced that there is a war between us and the Empire, which means I get filtered into the reserves and sent off to fight. I'm an alchemist, not a soldier! I don't want to fight in a bleeding war and get myself killed-!"

With a grunt from him, a gloved hand was suddenly pressed up against my mouth, leather palm to my lips. "Keep it down or something else will kill both of us." He advised. At first I thought it was my enthusiastic nods, but it turned out his arm was shaking on its own accord. "I'll get us out of here, but you have to trust me to get this to work, starting with getting that knife out of my face."

Many would not have, but in my senseless state, I lowered the kitchen knife. Similarly, he brought back the tanto from NEAR my crotch and lowered his hand from my mouth, tucking that arm up like a bird with a crippled wing. Before I could ask about it though, he sheathed his tanto and gripped my wrist, before starting a quick run towards the corner of the building, sticking close to the wall and keeping his posture crouched up for stealth. I followed suit, though I was a fair bit lankier and more stumbling than him, so I probably looked a bit stupider. HE DID. Right. Anyway, we got to the corner of the hall, which he carefully peaked around, only to jolt back behind the wall.

"Shit." He hissed as he furrowed his brow in thought.

"What is it?"

"Guards, thirty or so, all along the wall. We're not going to get passed this way without pulling off something ridiculous."

To this I smirked. He must have thought I was a completely useless idiot at this point, due to the incredulous look he threw me, but this was actually a time in which I was about to make use of myself. Since he was too busy thinking, he didn't seem to notice me slip my wrist out of his grasp and lean closer to him. "Let's do something ridiculous then," I murmured gleefully, before grabbing his wrist and dashing out from cover.

I could tell he was about to shout at me for being, as suspected, a complete idiot. I WAS GOING TO KNIFE HIM IN THE BACK. But as he raised his free hand to arm himself or otherwise grab me, he noticed that he was, in fact, invisible. And looking to my back, I was invisible too. He looked behind him, the breath he drew to berate me held. Not one of the soldiers had noticed as we pattered across the grand front gardens of the hall, dashing through the night. I remember the experience, to me, was completely mesmeric. Running past swirls and blurs of darkened colour, I was like a child running through the household garden, escaping into an imaginary fairy-tale that would not reveal its conclusion until due time. If I had been sober, I would not have gone through with this at all; how stupid it is to run from a life I knew into an unknown. Intrepid, perhaps, but I was still a coward due to the reasons why I ran. As I vaulted a low wall with the assassin behind me, I considered what I had become in the mere minutes after the fateful throw of a knife. I was an audacious coward, acting on impulses, yet so scared of planned prospects of death that I'd rather run hand-in-hand with the assassin that killed my boss than commit myself to possible death in the war. Dying in a war was certainly more honourable than dying due to abandoning post, but, since my new company was an assassin, my drunk self didn't think it mattered at all.

I don't exactly remember the route we took to get there, due to mental haziness, but by the time the spell wore off we were at the docks, crouched behind some crates that were being loaded into a sloop ship. In the dark, it was hard to make out what was what, but the assassin managed to pry open one of the bigger boxes with his tanto and shove us both in. If I actually remembered any of the obvious tension that we underwent being carried onto the boat, I would put it in now, but all I really recall is having my face squished into the hollow of the Dunmer's shoulder as we did our best to stay still, replicating cargo headed to an unknown location.


	4. Chapter 3

**Key**

_Italic writing_** = Third person not in the book**

Normal writing** = Dareio's perspective written in the book**

CAPITAL LETTERS **= "Anonymous Dunmer's" perspective written in the book**

**I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter Three

I remember it being a nasty tumble out of the box, for a combination of reasons. Just before the Dunmer had finished prying the exit panel open with his tanto, the boat we had secretly boarded jolted on a particularly big wave, throwing us out of the box. This was then followed by being shoved to the side after having landed on top of the assassin, who, despite his outward grouchiness and grumbling, was quick to rise to his feet. I was less so, instead rolling onto my back and taking a few seconds to blink dozily as green streaks and luminescent circles flashed and receded as my eyes adjusted to the magelight that filled the room. My head was still light from intoxication, but it wasn't as if I drunk so much I couldn't coordinate myself, so after another second or so APPROXIMATELY THREE MINUTES alright, goodness, after three whole, painstaking, arduous, overdrawn minutes, I sat up and glanced around. We were in a storage section underneath the top deck that ran from bow to stern, though wooden crates were piled and strapped together, seeming to act as their own walls and barriers. The Dunmer was somewhat rushing from box to box, peeking into peepholes and gaps between the wooden slats of the boxes, trying to discern what was in them.

"What are you doing?" I asked, tone languid, as if looking at him doing what he was doing wasn't enough to tell me what he was doing.

He didn't look around to me, but his tone of voice seemed to suggest he wished I hadn't had spoken at all. "Trying to find out what kind of shit we've gotten ourselves into," he muttered, softly due to our current location.

I, however, was not so quiet, but I was lucky that the creaks of the boat masked the noise of our activity. "Given the fact that you've killed a Major-General of the Aldmeri Dominion, and are currently smuggling a deserting soldier, I'd say this shit is of the large, painful variety."

It was then he shot a glare around to me, and gave me one of many shocks in our acquaintanceship. No pupils met my line of vision, just two white disks set in dampened void, like two pearls half-sunken into black tar. As an Altmer brought up to believe in breeding superiorities and taught to conform to and accept a certain list of ideals that the Altmeri society expected one to possess, the sight of apparently blind eyes was quite appalling to me, at least at first. But my conscious occupation as an alchemist took precedence over my subconscious occupation of ranking myself above and below other people according to the guidelines, thus my disgust soon transformed to curiosity as signs of the cause of this "blindness" grew. This then, after a blooming realisation, blossomed into an almost self-satisfaction for finding the answer so soon, a smirk coming to my face as I wobbled to my feet and stumbled closer to him. Had I been completely sober, fear would have held me back, but in my tipsy state, I took him by the chin and tilted his head up. He grasped my wrist immediately to throw my grasp off of him, but by then I had already confirmed my suspicions.

"Injected optical isolator," I muttered, unable to stop my internal musings from pouring out of my mouth as I stared at the white discs that covered the true appearance of his eyes, tilting my head from different angles to get a good look. "But made from what ingredients, I wonder, and by who! Whoever performed this operation must have been very skilled, but however skilled they are, I bet this was damn painful-"

The assassin finally whacked my hand away from him. "Will you shut the fuck up and help me find out where we are? This isn't important."

"Oh, but it is!" I grinned, getting rather excited, given the situation. I am very invested in alchemy and the study of it, so to find such a rare operation success was very thrilling. "Why did you get this done to you? Do you pretend to be blind to fool people?"

He turned away to look into another box, kneeling to get to it. "Just shut up."

"Are you hiding from something? Or someone?" I continued to question, completely ignoring his instruction. "But one would think someone with strange eyes as that would be more noticeable, wouldn't they? You must have been so despera-!"

Immediately, he shot to his feet, scowling deeply. "Look, I just killed your damn boss and pulled your drunken ass from the ranks of that greedy, control-freak government that you were idiotic enough to work for. The least you can do is to stop using that insufferable voice of yours, and if you could help me find out where we are, that'd be fetching fantastic!"

My drink-induced smirk didn't fade. "But I already know where we are and where we're headed."

"WHAT." I WAS READY TO STRANGLE HIM.

There really wasn't a reason to strangle me; I was telling the truth. "This is a scout ship," I informed my Dunmeri friend, glancing around the ship's hold. "I've had experience in terms of stocking various potions for these operations. I suspect the crew of this ship is a detachment of Thalmor agents pretending to be a group of overseas merchants so they can go undercover and spy on the Empire's military movements in Cyrodiil."

I couldn't tell whether the assassin was surprised by the information or by my sudden intellect, or whether he was surprised at all, but after a second he gave nod of understanding and skimmed over a few crates to return to a specific one he'd passed earlier. "We can stock up on anything we need for our escape, then split ways when we're a safe distance from the scouts."

I pouted immediately, leaning against a wooden column and observing him as he searched for supplies. "But I've barely gotten to know you."

"Good."

I huffed, pressing myself harder into the wood as the boat took a larger lean against a big wave. "Fine," I spoke after gathering my bearings from the wave. "I suppose I ought to get to know my rescuer now, while I have the chance. What's your name?"

It only took me a few seconds to realise he was not going to answer, consciously ignoring me as he inspected another crate.

"Well, my name's Dareio."

No response, but I was quite sure he retained the information. It was only now, though, that my mind was cast back to the shaking in his arm from when he covered my mouth earlier, for it was tucked up close to him as he tried to pry open a box one-handed. Of course, this spurred me to cross over to him, thankfully without stumbling over from the rocking of the ship.

"You're injured," I stated, plainly, a subconscious attempt to level with him in vocabulary.

"I'm fine." The expected response.

I tutted a few times, trying to reach to get a gentle hold of his arm to inspect it. "No, you are not, now don't make me-"

He suddenly winced at the contact of my hand, retreating from me immediately and hissing: "Don't fucking touch me!" It was now that I realised that, if I were to level with him in vocabulary, I would need to add a few curse words to my dictionary. "Now," the Dunmer added, rolling the shoulder of his unharmed arm, attempting to regain a bit of composure, "Do you mind?"

"Yes, actually, I do," I answered as I furrowed my brow slightly, somewhat troubled by how tender the pain in his arm must have been. It wasn't because I necessarily cared for his well-being, but it did seem that our chance of escape would have increased if the assassin had full use of both arms. "Ok, I won't touch you again, but at least let me heal it so you can use it properly when we abandon ship."

He held his anger for some time, probably fighting with stubbornness and pride internally, before moving back to where he was before and offering his arm forward, hesitantly due to mistrust.

"Roll your sleeve up," I instructed, simply enough. He complied, simply enough also, though it took a small amount of effort and wincing due to the fact that his sleeve was made from boiled leather. I had to squint a bit due to the darkness of his skin, but it wasn't too long until I identified bruises, clouding in purple and green around his elbow. "How, by the design of Magnus, did you manage to dislocate your elbow like that?"

The assassin scowled, not happy to hear he'd pulled his elbow. IT'S A CHILD'S INJURY. Oh, come now, you should be unhappy that it hurt, not because it wasn't an 'adult injury'. FUCK OFF, DON'T TELL ME WHEN I 'SHOULD BE UNHAPPY'. Alright, alright, goodness gracious! "It was your fault," he grumbled.

I protested: "Why is it my fault?"

"Before you came out, I thought all the troops had cleared off, so I started to scale down the wall to make my escape," he explained, slight irritation in what tone could be picked up through the Vvardenfell-growl, "I thought I was in the clear, and then _you_ blunder out, so I had to stop myself before I landed and made myself seen. Grabbed the rope, pulled my elbow. If you weren't there, I could have landed and continued on my way."

I immediately argued back. "Now, just a minute, that clearly means it's your fault! You were stupid enough to stop yourself in such a sudden way. In fact, you're an assassin! You could have just landed me and knifed me in the-" I then halted, eyes going wide as I realised what I was saying. It was true; the assassin was right above me while I bumbled about below. He had the power (and probably the motivation, based on how he had treated me so far) to end my life in a flash, something I feared would happen in the newly-declared war. It could have been over for me in seconds! And all I did was stumble about, ignorant, dumbed, and arrogant.

"Back," the Dunmer finished the sentence for me. "Yeah, I know I could have."

"Well, why didn't you?"

My question seemingly startled the Dunmer, since he took a long pause before he answered. I was beginning to think I broke him. WHO ON NIRN QUESTIONS THEIR POTENTIAL KILLER AS TO WHY THEY DIDN'T KILL THEM? Me, apparently. Whatever questions were raised in the assassin's head, he shrugged them away and replied simply: "I try not to kill people who aren't contracts."

I smiled at that, genuinely made curious. "Aw, a compassionate assassin, are we?"

He grunted, making it appear as though he was disgusted with the suggestion. "I don't want to leave a fetching trail of dead bodies when I'm trying to escape; makes me easier to catch. Now, are you going to heal my arm or what?"

My smile didn't fade. In fact, it got wider, which might have freaked the Dunmer out a bit, but I didn't care. "Oh, you don't heal pulled elbows," I cooed, before placing one of my hands behind his elbow and grabbing his wrist with the other hand, and shifting the bone back into place with a shove, before slapping my hand over his mouth for him to yell into. Which he did, for a short burst, before he shouldered me away from him and quickly scooted away from me, cradling his arm.

"I thought you said you wouldn't fucking touch me again!" He snarled, testing out his now-fixed arm to see if he can move it.

"Well, I treated the injury, didn't I?" I replied, sensibly enough. "That's what you do with pulled elbows; you pop them back into place."

"You didn't have to do it all "SURPRISE" and shit! It fucking hurt!"

"If I told you I was about to do it, you wouldn't have let me do it," I reasoned, simply. "You told me not to touch you, after all."

The Dunmer stared at me for a few seconds, with an expression that seemed like a cross between disbelief and distaste, before he broke his stare and perked a little, hearing footsteps nearing that I was too unfocused to hear. He grabbed me, shoved me back in our original box, and jumped in after me, before closing up the box to make our hiding place look like normal cargo. We had to wait for a few minutes to pass for the two scout-soldiers that had entered to rifle through the boxes for some things and talk about stuff that I didn't really care enough to listen to, so I started thinking about what I was going to do once I was left on my own in Cyrodiil. I figured the people of Cyrodiil were going to be suspicious of Altmer, what with war being declared, so I considered travelling to Morrowind, or perhaps eastern Skyrim, and try and find a job. It wouldn't be too hard to create potions and sell them to people; I might have even been able to make potions that sped up the healing process and sell it to detachments of soldiers I pass. I wasn't going to join either side, of course; the whole point of me abandoning the Thalmor was to escape the war. But it was a thought… And with temple healers going off with the soldiers to serve as medical support, I could have even sold cures and antidotes to people who need them, perhaps. Before I could think into the details though, light flushed its way into the box as the Dunmer reopened the panel and sneaked out, checking around for any lingering officers silently, before coming back and crouching down to my height, since I was still lying in the box.

"We've got to prepare for our escape and survival once we get out," he told me, having now seemingly calmed down from having his arm fixed (YOU MEAN WRENCHED BACK INTO PLACE), before standing up and moving away, starting to pry open boxes to get things out.

Maybe this was aided by the fact that I was still under some amount of influence from the copious amounts of alcohol I had drunk at the party, but I found myself staying where I was, staring at the wooden slats above me. I was startled by his use of "we" and "our"; he seemed completely fixed in the fact that he did not want to relate to me one bit, yet he collected us together in pronouns.

He obviously didn't notice though, since he soon kicked the side of the crate lightly and insisted: "come on, you lazy fuck; we haven't much time."

I tilted my head to look at him, looking as if I was under the influence of some sort of hallucinogen, wide-eyed and thunderstruck. "You wanted to split ways once we got out, didn't you?"

The Dunmer was silent for a bit, looking aside to find the words to explain himself. It wasn't out of awkwardness or embarrassment that stopped him, it was literally because he could not pick the right words (at least, that is what he told me). After a short while, he turned away to one of the crates and started it pry it open with his tanto. "I was just thinking while those other guys were passing through."

"So was I, oddly enough," I commented in a genuine tone, before adding sarcastically, "comes with being a sentient mortal, I suppose."

He paused from his prying to shoot me a white glare, before turning back to his work. "You wouldn't have gotten off of that island without me," he started, the panel of the crate he trying to open coming off with a clunk, before he moved it aside and started to rifle through what looked like a crate of clothing. "But, as much as I hate to say it, I wouldn't have gotten off that island without you. If it weren't for the other, we'd both be dead; me from getting captured, and you from doing something stupid when you got sent out to war, I'd bet."

"Thanks."

He looked up from the crate, dropping out two leather satchels to his feet as he continued to talk, sternly. "Hear me out a second. The war's coming, and it's going to be a fucking shitstorm of a war, absolutely huge. While it might not benefit us psychologically, as a matter of survival it'd be better to stick together, cover each other's back. You get this, right?"

I considered what he was saying. While he was an unbelievable angry person, to the point of being irritating, and while I was a trained in destruction magic as well as restoration to defend myself, the assassin was right: it'd be much safer to travel in a two. "I think-" I started to speak in a gentle tone as I attempted to raise to his height to level myself with him, only to end up hitting my head with the top of the crate. I let out a grunt and rubbed my head, slightly embarrassed, but there wasn't really any reason to be embarrassed since the only witness present seemed to not react at all. Trying a second time, I crawled out of the crate before rising to my full height, starting my sentence over. "I think it'd be best if we did stay together, yes." I then smirked, feeling a bit smug, "So I was completely right when I protested against us splitting ways earlier."

The Dunmer rolled his eyes, the bent down, and picked up one of the satchels by his feet, lobbing it at me. "Let's get prepared."


	5. Chapter 4

**Key**

_Italic writing_** = Third person not in the book**

Normal writing** = Dareio's perspective written in the book**

CAPITAL LETTERS **= "Anonymous Dunmer's" perspective written in the book**

**Shorter chapter, but I hope you like it!**

* * *

Chapter Four

It didn't take us very long to get prepared, since the Dunmer seemed very well-practiced in this area. We got ourselves the essentials first: food, flasks of water, some bandages and other medical supplies, a few health potions, what money we could find around the storerooms (though this didn't really amount to much). He was very firm about only packing what we needed, but, being the alchemist and rule-bender I was, I managed to sneak in a mortar and pestle from their stores, as well as some empty phials and ingredients for potions and poisons. I had to change from my uniform into some form of commoner's clothing, which I actually didn't end up minding too much because it was more comfortable than uniform, and had a lot of pockets to keep things in, however less attractive it made me look.

The sleeping arrangements for that night were quite interesting, considering we had to get ourselves comfortable in the crate we'd sneaked onto the boat in, lest we get ourselves caught by the shipmates while we were sleeping. It consisted of a strange game of "Elf Building Blocks", as well as a discovery that muscle weighed a lot more than I originally thought. ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT? No, of course I am not calling you fat! I simply found you considerably heavier than I first estim- THAT WAS A JOKE; I LITERALLY DO NOT GIVE A SHIT. You made me think there was a reason to be sorry when there wasn't and, for that, you are a bastard.

I actually slept considerably well, when bearing in mind that we were on a ship, inside a crate, sharing this crate with a Dunmeri assassin that had killed my boss recently. Though, when I woke, I had two things to deal with that were less than positive. Firstly, the hangover headache, which pounded heavily in my head and made me reluctant to wake up, but at the same time reluctant to stay still due to wanting to find a way to cure it. The second point was discovered once I was able to pull my consciousness into reality, and was more out of slight fear than irritation, as I realised that the Dunmer had woken up and gotten out of the crate without waking me. I figured that, if he could manage to do that without stirring me from slumber, than he could get away with _anything_ while I was asleep. I didn't want to question how much I could trust him, but, well, that's exactly what I did. He'd helped me escape a fate of war for no obvious immediate gain to himself, yet he was still an assassin who had, technically, a history of killing Thalmor. He was right when he said that we wouldn't have gotten out of the isles without each other, but I had already planned what I could do to escape the war from here without him, and if this was a matter of survival…

I stopped the thought there, made nervous by my thoughts of potential disloyalty, and rubbed my eyes. When I brought my hands away, I saw black smudges smeared up the length of my fingers, which immediately made me huff; I rarely left my eyeliner on overnight, but whenever I did, it was always a pain. Reaching into my bag, I took out a flask of water and wetted my sleeve, putting the flask back before scrubbing my over and around eyelids. You might find this slightly feminine of me, but I always carry a small pot of oil-kohl and a small brush to apply it with, which was one of the few things I had with me when I escaped Alinor, thus I was able to redraw the lines around my eyes. Even with the boat rocking, I was well-trained in the art of applying eyeliner, swiftly drawing the lines in place with accuracy.

"_That's quite a boast you got there, Dareio," the Dunmer pointed out the last paragraph, feigning an impressed tone, "you're an expert make-up applier. I can almost hear the reader hyperventilating as they try to overcome just how awesome you are."_

"_You're just jealous," Dareio replied, before continuing writing._

Though, I wasn't quick enough, it seemed, to do it before the assassin noticed. "Oi, missus," he accosted me in the polite manner he always held FUCK OFF point made, "I found something for that piece of shrapnel you call a knife." Chucking something towards me, I heard a light slap of leather against the deck just as I finished lining my eyes, glancing over to what caused it. It was a sheath, small enough for the kitchen knife I'd picked up the last evening. I packed away my make-up and picked up sheath that was attached to a thin belt, turning it over in my hand. As I did, the Dunmer continued, "Is that thing seriously standard-issue in the Thalmor?"

I immediately burst out laughing, the quickly dissolved into a groan as my head pounded from the suddenness of it, prompting me to press my fingers into my temples and let small wisps of healing magic roll from my fingertips and into my head. "No, it's not standard-issue; it's a kitchen knife I picked up just after you assassinated Major-General Telgamin."

"Oh. Huh."

I clambered out of the box, my headache calming a bit due to the application of healing magic, before putting the belt on, adjusting it so the sheath lay flat against my hip, and sheathing my knife into the holder. "Thank you," I spoke a bit quieter due to my head, but tried to put enough tone into it so I didn't sound sarcastic. He didn't reply, instead chucking an apple in my direction, which hit me in the chest before landing in my open hands. I was starting to gather that, being an assassin that killed targets with throwing knives, he liked throwing things. Regardless, I was starving, so I gladly took the apple and started to eat it. As I indulged in this small breakfast, he went off to scout the area for potential escape routes, so I was left alone. Aside from his return about quarter of an hour later, there really wasn't much to that day, or in fact the few days we spent on the boat. We indulged in a bit of small-talk (the only type of talk I thought the Dunmer was capable of at the time), and he even managed to swipe a deck of cards from one of the crewmembers to play a few games with, but apart from that, it was just hiding and waiting for us to hit the docks.

But something always has to go wrong.

It was bad enough with just the storm, which arrived explosively halfway through what felt like our billionth game of Go Fish (yes, I managed to convince a full-blown assassin to play Go Fish, one point to Dareio). The ship swayed dramatically from side to side, a rough wind cutting through the front-most hatch up to the top deck and creating a loud, piercing whistle that was occasionally cut off by the crash of waves against the sides of the vessel. The Dunmer had just about stashed the cards away when we suddenly heard the shouting of orders overhead, their voices strained with professional tension over the howl of the gale and the lashings of heavy rain against the deck. To be safe, we bundled back into the box and closed the lid.

"What the fuck is going on up there?" The assassin grumbled, half-whispering.

"Hush up a second and I might be able to tell," I mumbled back to him, tilting my head so that my ear was pressed against the top of the box in an attempt to decipher the words in the shouting. I wasn't able to listen for too long though, as the boat was suddenly jolted to the side, throwing us both against the side of the crate as the soul gem that was supplying the magelight was knocked out of its holder, plunging the whole deck into darkness.

The Dunmer grunted from being thrown to one side, before growling: "Let's get out of this thing before we break our necks." He then kicked the lid off, grabbed my forearm, and jumped out of the box, pulling me out behind him.

As someone who favoured hiding to running, I protested with a squeak. "Where are we going t-?" But, before I could finish, the boat was violently knocked again, throwing us to the same side as before; if it hadn't been for my wrist being held, I would have surely toppled backwards into the box. We gained full balance quickly, and I was just about to ask a question, though I found my words halted as I noticed water snaking across the deck, only able to be seen crawling towards us by the reflections of the lighting strikes outside across the water's surface. With a glance up, I traced the water to its source: a hole blown into the side of the ship, with seawater now pulsing through it like blood out of an open wound.

"Shit!" The other elf choked out, immediately pulling me away from staring at the water and making a dash in the opposite direction, down the deck to a ladder that lead up to the top deck. Before we could get to it though, a Thalmor agent jumped down from the hatch landing in front of the ladder. My military training prompted magicka to surge to my hands, but I was not quick enough, for the assassin did not hesitate to swipe his tanto across the agent's neck, sending the Altmer tumbling to the ground. Fear locked my brain from doing anything other than stare at the body, soul extinguished in a fraction of time. Following the blood that trailed down the deck from the fallen scout, the last sight I remember seeing before I was tugged up the ladder was the meeting of the ocean and the blood, the darkly coloured liquid clouding into the sea into smoke-like swirls, before being dragged back into the main body of the chilling water.

As soon as we got on deck, the rain lashed down onto us, mixed with the saltwater from the ferocious waves, making my eyes sting a bit. With the deck being as slippery as it was, the two of us only made it so far before we found ourselves clinging to the bottom of some rigging to keep our balance. Looking about quickly, I could agents lining the opposite side of the ship, flinging blurs of mage-fire across the ocean in an attempt to hit the enemy, which I soon made out as an Imperial Legion defence ship. As a scout ship, the sloop we were boarded on was quick and small, but it wasn't enough to hold out against a defence ship, especially considering that the defence ship had cannons and the scout ship did not.

This was soon made obvious to me by a cannonball whizzing into the mast, hurtling through it with a splintering crash, and sending it toppling towards us with an almighty creak. We dived out of the way in time to miss it, helpless against the destruction it caused as the weight of the mast pulled it straight through the top deck. With instinct amalgamating with adrenaline, we scrambled to our feet and dashed away from the collapsing decking, struggling to stay on our feet as the mast's weight continued to drag the boat to the side. I was so blinded with panic that I didn't even notice the Dunmer slice his way through two more soldiers who attempted to intercept us, my vision spinning as I was overwhelmed by the action. I had never been in an actual combat situation until this day, so being struck with one on a boat in the middle of the ocean, in a storm, at night, thrust upon us in a matter of minutes, and being on the losing side, was too devastating for what little courage I had already to take.

Waves began to throw themselves over the barriers of the top deck as the ocean began to devour the sinking ship. As my mind closed up on me like watery jaws that threatened to eat up the ground I stood on, absolute fear feasted on my insides, twisting knots in my stomach and shortening my breath as it squeezed my ribs tightly. It must have been a mix of terror, the darkness of the night, and salt in my eyes that blurred my vision as much as it did, but it made me unable to locate the assassin, which only made the fissure in my hope grow into a consuming abyss. Then, a thread of light shot through the black abyss as I heard a voice over the storm: "DAREIO!"

I span towards the voice, struck still and dumb by the sudden surge of faith that I could possibly get out of this. But my inability to break my frozen state caused the luminescent strand to slip my fingers, as the ship was hit by multiple cannon blasts, throwing me off of the deck and sending me toppling backwards, over the barrier and into the sea. As I felt the wind against my back, my mind shot to the image of the blood dissolving into the ocean, a life extinguished and made insignificant in a moment. There was a sudden burst of icy cold enveloping my body, and then it all went black.


	6. Chapter 5

**Key**

_Italic writing_** = Third person not in the book**

Normal writing** = Dareio's perspective written in the book**

CAPITAL LETTERS **= "Anonymous Dunmer's" perspective written in the book**

**It took me this long to realise that it would take longer than a day to sail from Alinor to near Cyrodiil, so I altered the last chapter slightly. Thank you for being patient, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

Chapter Five

I bolted up and screamed, before doubling over forward and throwing up due to my senses being overwhelmed: the air rushing out of my lungs, the loud sound of my scream drilling into my ears, the sudden usage of muscles, weight being abruptly put on my stomach as I sat up, and the flooding of blurry light and colour into my eyes. That was the graceful entrance I made back to consciousness after my near-death. I honestly don't understand where the fictional idea of fluttering eyelashes and slow, beautiful wake-ups after being washed up on the sea came from, because, I am telling you, I'm quite sure it is impossible. I stayed leant over my own stomach acid dashed upon sand, coughing out the taste of bile and blinking away a couple of pain-induced tears in an attempt to make a picture out of the blurs in front of me. Was this death? It certainly the god-spirit sensation that the Thalmor teachings promised it would feel like. After a shiver and a few more coughs, I rocked back to sit on the sand, before I noticed a shape to my left. Glancing over to it slowly, I rubbed my eyes and blinked, only to make out the shape as a satchel. Reaching out stiffly, I dragged it across to me, plunging my hand in and feeling around. Soon enough, I pressed my palm into a recognisable object, which I curled my trembling fingers around and pulled out. When I turned my palm up and unwrapped my fingers, I identified the object as a pot of oil-kohl. My pot of oil-kohl. A shadow then grew from over my shoulder, prompting me to look behind me.

"You look different without that shit on your face," the recognisable voice of the Dunmer notified me with his recognisable use of curse words. I noticed he was holding a blanket, one of its corners stuffed in his hand while the rest was dragged behind him, but I didn't really think to ask about it.

"Well, I seldom take it off," I replied, a slight slur to my words as I slowly recovered from the previous events. "I'm surprised you took the time to point that out."

"I meant you got puke over your face and you look different without it."

I immediately frowned, before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and turning away to look back to the view that was originally presented to me when I woke, now clearer due to my vision recovering to full clarity. The sky was overcast, light grey stretching all across the horizon with only a few holes in the cloudy blanket where rosy morning sunrays gently speckled through. The main body of the ocean was a dark ultramarine in hue, but where it lapped upon the golden sands, it came off as a light azure. A coastal wind swirled directly into my face, pushing back my salt-heavy hair, which I had only just noticed was mostly dry. "How long was I passed out for?"

"About ten hours," he replied simply, taking a knee next to me before falling back onto his bum, bringing his leg around. I could tell he was stiff, and I thought I detected a slight limp too, but I figured he'd get touchy about it if I pointed it out. "We got here just as the sun was rising."

I turned to look at his face, only now able to realise just how rough he looked. Even with his skin as being as dark was it was, you could make out the bruising under his eyes due to lack of sleep, and the heaviness weighing his eyelids down slightly. He still had a light frown as I thought was permanent to him, but now his lips were parted ever so slightly as he breathed heavier than normal. It felt very unusual, since it had never occurred to me before that he was able to be vulnerable until now. He'd kill me if he knew I ever thought him as vulnerable at all. SOON. It was a figure of speech. IT'S BECAUSE I TRY TOO HARD, ISN'T IT? Of course, dear. "How do you know that?" I asked, realising it was a bit of a dumb question but not caring enough to change my words.

"I know because I was dragging your ass here," he replied, bluntly.

My eyes widened, the tone of my voice sharpening with seriousness. "You what?"

The Dunmer sighed lightly. "Do you remember anything that happened before you woke up?"

I squinted into the distance, as if it would help me remember. "Let me think…" I began, tilting my head to the side, "we were playing Go Fish, when there was banging overhead, so we went in the crate. Then, there was another bang, so we got out of the crate, then-" My brain then jumped ahead to my last memory of the night, causing me to shout, "I fell in the ocean!"

"You did," he confirmed. "So I dived in and pulled you out."

"You what?" I repeated an earlier comment, too exhausted to think up anything creative to say.

He rolled his eyes, but didn't raise his voice, probably too tired to shout. "After you got thrown back into the ocean, I dived in after you. You were unconscious, so I hauled you up and found a part of the ship for us to help us stay above water, and let the tide and a bit of luck bring us back to shore." He paused, though, after a few seconds of unfilled silence, added, "you were lucky I was able to keep a hold of you and our satchels. You're heavier than I thought you would be." WHO'S THE FAT FUCKER NOW?! I hate you. THAT WAS A JOKE. I know.

I took a few more seconds to truly recognise and process what the Dunmer just told me, before asking: "Why'd you do that?"

"You ask far too many questions," he grumbled and pinched the bridge of his nose. At first, I thought he'd avoid the question, but he then spoke up again: "I pledged a partnership with you."

"And?"

"And?" He repeated, seeming a bit offended. "What more is there to say? That's the point of a partnership: you save my ass and I save yours."

With my memories of the previous night flooding back to me, I started to feel very bad. I doubted I could trust him because he was able to get up without waking me up, yet he saved my life… Again… Technically, again. I started to smile, small at first due to weariness, though it wasn't long until it widened, probably to the biggest grin I had ever had on my face up to that point. Not caring enough to stop myself, I started to giggle, which then melted into a laugh, before exploding into a cackle, throwing my head back as a cackled away into the crisp morning air.

The Dunmer didn't really seem to understand. "Something funny about that?"

"You know what?" I was in absolute hysterics by now, completely bonkers. "I've known you for, what, a few days or so? And you're still the best friend I've ever had! Isn't that sad?"

He glared. "We're not friends."

My smile faded just fractionally. "Well, what would you call us, then? If we're not friends?"

The Dunmer paused, before answering: "Associates."

Instantly, I burst out laughing- No, uncontrollably howling, in fact, so much so that I needed to lie back on the sand in an attempt to rest the ache in my sides. I think, by this time, I was so overwhelmed by my near-death experience that I simply did not care what I was saying or how much of a lunatic I was coming off as. After a few minutes of guffawing, I composed myself enough to ask him yet another question. "You're not being serious, are you?"

He stared at me silently, scowl ever-present.

I propped myself up on my elbow to look at him properly. "Well, what do your friends have that I don't, then?" I asked, still with a titter of entertainment in my tone.

"I don't have any friends," he replied with a grunt, with such immediacy one could almost suggest that it was rushed.

My eyebrows shot up and my smile widened in tickled disbelief. "Oh, come off it!"

All the assassin did was deepen his scowl.

"Oh," I accepted his seriousness: I was beginning to think he was incapable of being anything but that. For some time, I stared at the ocean and sat wordless, contemplating the words just spoken (and glares given, in the case of my Dunmeri "associate"). I questioned myself as to why I was striving for a friendship. It wasn't as though I, at that present time, was losing anything by staying as "associates", and it didn't seem like the Dunmer wanted any friends anyway. Perhaps that was the reason why, because I wanted to do what he did not. But surely that just contradicted the point of being a friend: friends should support what their friend wants, not strive to do what their friend _doesn't_ want. I was starting to suck myself into a paradox, so immediately I did the only thing I felt like I could do to gain some clarification: ask another question. "What would you look for in a friend?" I asked him, turning away from the sea and back to the side of his face.

He paused, expression unchanging, and stared out indifferently to the ocean. I was about to assume that he was ignoring the question again, but then he shrugged and replied: "I don't know."

I smirked, gaining an upper hand. "Well, if you don't know what you look for in a friend, how do you know I'm not one?"

Just when I thought he couldn't frown any more, he did, his grimace mixing with a wince as he pushed himself up onto his feet. "You really do ask too many questions," he groused gravely, before turning away, but not before chucking the blanket he was holding earlier over my head.

"What's so wrong with-?" I started, protesting as I flapped the blanket off of my head and turning to follow him, only to have my legs give way beneath me. This is another thing about fictional tales of waking up from being washed onto a shore that I don't understand: if you're standing up for the first time after being drenched, frozen through by cold seas, and pushed around by the whims of a stormy ocean, you are _not_ going to be standing up and dancing around happily! IT DIDN'T TAKE ME THAT LONG TO GET UP. Nobody asked for your input, thank you! Well, regardless of what _certain other people_ think, my legs couldn't hold me up, and I subsequently collapsed, face hitting the sand. After blowing the sand away from my mouth and nose, and wiping the rest away with my sleeve, I glanced up from my lowered position to look at the Dunmer, who was still facing away, but was glancing back over his shoulder. From this height, and with his body facing away, I was able to see what was causing the limp in his gait earlier, tracing a long line of crimson trailing down a roughly bandaged calf.

"Are you ever going to tell me when you're injured?" I questioned him, slightly irritated by him brushing me off. He then made the irritation worse by not answering, instead starting to walk away from me for Magnus knows what reason. Made somewhat livid by him repeatedly ignoring me (again, I blame fatigue), I scrambled behind him as fast as I could on my hands and knees, before reaching out for his uninjured leg and yanking it towards me. "Why don't you-?"

The assassin reacted as fast and as violently as one would expect an assassin to react, but that doesn't mean I saw it coming at the time. As soon as he hit the ground, he instinctually swung around his free leg and booted me in the side, causing me to topple over. I clutched my side, letting out a groan as I tried to regain the what breath he knocked out with the kick. Only a second passed when I thought I heard a sound, causing me to glance up at the Dunmer. It was then that I discovered that he was clutching his leg, wincing and deepening his breath, having kicked me with his injured leg at full force. So here we lay in the sands of an unidentified location, having temporarily, indirectly crippled each other. It must have been a hopeless sight to an outsider; by Oblivion, I wouldn't be surprised if you were finding it pathetic now! But I remember finding the whole situation quite… Charming, in a way. Through the soreness, it reminded me that we were both only mortals, two souls lost together. Call me quixotic, but I'm quite sure it was at this moment that we were both made sure that we shared a friendship, even if the realisation was served with a streak of irony due to the fact that we had to cause each other pain to get to that point.

"Didn't I tell you not to touch me?" The Dunmer mumbled through a grunt, looking over to me as we lay crumpled up on the ground.

"Actually, I remember you telling me not to 'fucking' touch you," I chuckled, though it was in spite of my actual feelings. "I apologize," I added after a pause, not helping my tone softening with sincerity, "Though it would be better for the both of us if you told me when you were injured so I can sort it out. You know, all the 'you save my ass, I save yours' business."

"Yeah, uh," he trailed off in thought, before focusing back on me. "Sorry."

I'll be honest, I never thought the assassin would ever be sorry for anything, and certainly wouldn't admit to it, so I found myself pleasantly surprised. With this sensation, I felt a renewed will to complete my original goal: heal his wound. After quickly fighting off a fading strain in my side, I pushed myself up so I was seated in front of him, before holding my hands over his leg. "Take that bandage off, and I'll heal your leg."

He was tentative, but eventually the Dunmer unwrapped the bandage, exposing a ragged wound. He never told me what caused it, but I suspect it was caused by a sharp rock or perhaps a splintered part of the boat. Luckily, he'd done a good enough job of cleaning it out, so all I had to do was cast and let the healing magic do the trick. While I was concentrating on keeping the spell up, I could not help but notice the Dunmer staring at the healing the whole way though, looking somewhat rapt by the golden wisps of magic that laced itself around and into his leg, glittering particles woven with luminous ribbons of smoke-effect light. It didn't take too long to heal over the laceration, leaving a line of lighter-shaded skin but little else, but the Dunmer continued to stare at his leg, mouth ever-so-slightly agape. Leaving him to that, I decided to try and stand up. Attempt one, I fell back on my butt. Attempt two, I wobbled, cheered for myself for staying up for longer than a second, then clocked my knees inwards as they gave in and crumpled into a heap like a baby deer failing to take its first steps. I drove myself back onto my two feet for my third attempt, I could feel myself quivering to the point where I swore the ground had hit my face, but then I felt a shoulder underneath one armpit, arm wrapped across my back, and a hand underneath my other armpit.

"Lean," the Dunmer ordered directly, almost as if he was so reluctant to say it that he couldn't even bear to formulate a full sentence.

I complied, quietly, if feeling a bit bad for using him yet again, even after all he went through to make sure I got out alive. Like this, we went about the general area, picking up our satchels and the blanket he was carrying earlier, wordless in our gathering. As we turned to walk inland, towards a wooded area that seemed to lead to a road, I opened my mouth to talk, probably about something pointless, when I found myself interrupted.

"Alva Lorsel." That was all he said.

"Pardon?" I asked him, made curious by the new formation of letters he just spoke, but also made slightly wary by the fact that I did not know what he meant by them.

"My name is Alva Lorsel," the Dunmer spoke plainly, if a bit quieter than usual.

I paused to consider, before attempting to pose another question: "Isn't Alva a girl's na-?"

"_Don't_," he enforced, "not now."

So we shuffled onwards, into the shadows of the trees as we tried to find a path to follow, not knowing where we were, what we were getting ourselves into, and what the future held.


End file.
